


SOS

by aravenwood



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Masterchef references, because that is my addiction right now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 08:06:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10658415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aravenwood/pseuds/aravenwood
Summary: Sometimes, she really hated Matt. She hated him now for sending such a stupidly vague text when it was clearly an emergency.





	SOS

**Author's Note:**

> You ever have one of those weeks where it's just been awful and all you want to do is shove your pain onto fictional characters? That's been my entire month.
> 
> It's been a while since I watched this show, and admittedly I haven't seen the end of season 2 because I just want Matt and Foggy to be happy (WHY CAN'T THEY JUST BE HAPPY?!!), so characters may be OOC. Also, this fic was written instead of a pre-exam panic attack, so who knows how much sense it makes.
> 
> Still, enjoy!

Sometimes, she really hated Matt. She hated him now for sending such a stupidly vague text when it was clearly an emergency.

“’SOS’. Really, Matt? SOS how? You’ve been shot? You were caught in an explosion? You’ve got hypothermia and a risk of secondary drowning? Would it kill you to give me a hint?” she mumbled, jogging upstairs to Matt’s apartment. There were no blood trails along the hallway, which was a relief.

Or maybe not. Matt would totally bleed internally just to spite her.

And why the hell did Matt have to live so far up? She felt like she was going to need that oxygen mask – and yes, she had a tank of oxygen in her bag. She was almost relieved that the biggest one she could find was only 1.7 litres; she was _not_ carrying a 29 litre tank up all the way upstairs. Damn it, gas was heavy.

She reached his floor and resisted the urge to call out his name, although for once the message had come during the day rather than at 3am, so shouting wouldn’t be totally unacceptable. But knowing her luck, some nosy neighbour would hear, demand they be allowed to help and see Matt bleeding out in the middle of his floor in that costume of his. Of course she’d be the one to blow all his hard work.

She didn’t bother knocking – he probably wouldn’t be able to answer – but instead used the key he’d given her. “Matt, you really need to give me more details in those messages!” she snapped as soon as the door slammed shut behind me.

The wheezing reached her ears first.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. Another pneumothorax or maybe a haemothorax or a collapsed lung. First thing’s first, get him on oxygen and get a chest tube in. No morphine because that would only make his breathing worse and -.

“She’s here, Foggy. It’s okay, man, you’re gonna be fine. Just hold on for me – just hold on.”

Claire froze. Foggy? Fuck no, she wasn’t prepared to deal with a hurt Foggy. Who the hell would dare hurt him? – he was sweet and kind and selfless and he’d never hurt anyone so whoever the heartless bastard was that hurt the bundle of joy was going to have to deal with her.

“What happened?” she more demanded than asked, dragging the full medical kit with her. She dropped to her knees next to the two of them and automatically searched for the blood she knew she was going to find.

Her mind once again jumped to pneumothoraxes and collapsed lungs when she saw the cyanotic tinge to Foggy’s lips and the way his chest heaved seemingly without taking in any air. His eyes twitched lazily around the room, never lingering for long but always returning to the same spot, as if he didn’t trust the room not to change the moment he looked away.

Matt held Foggy against his chest; one arm on his forehead and another around his shoulders. He looked truly panicked. “Asthma. He hasn’t had an attack in years and I don’t think he has an inhaler,” he explained in one long exhalation.

“Alright. Alright.” She spoke mostly to herself as she dug through the first aid bag, dumping out the oxygen tank and mask, various medications, bandages, a tracheal tube among other supplies in her rush to find the inhaler she knew was in there – she remembered when her first aid kit consisted of a roll of bandages and a thermometer. Ah, the good old days...

Her hand closed around the plastic and she immediately pressed it into Foggy’s hand. She lifted his hand to his mouth and helped to tuck the inhaler between dry lips. “Ok, Foggy? I know you haven’t used one of these in a while, so I’ll tell you what to do. I want you push down hard on your inhaler and then take a big breath in and hold it. Can you do that four times for me and we’ll see how you’re feeling?” She was fully aware that she sounded like she was talking to a child, but Matt didn’t comment on it and Foggy didn’t even seem able to form words.

She watched Foggy to see if his breathing was easing off, and a quick glance told her Matt was paying just as much attention as her; his hand had slipped lower and was now spread across Foggy’s chest, feeling each breath as it came.

“I used to keep an inhaler for him in college, but I stopped carrying it after six months of no attacks. I-I don’t know why I didn’t just keep carrying it because of course his asthma wouldn’t just go away,” he said. His eyebrows were scrunched and his jaw clenched – he looked about ready to cry.

“Matt.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not unusual for asthma symptoms to ease off for a long time, only to return in full force. And besides, that inhaler you carried for him? Those things have sell-by dates, and after that, they’re not all that useful. Don’t worry; he’s going to be fine.”

After puff number four, Foggy let the inhaler drop, apparently too exhausted to even keep holding onto it. Claire caught it before it hit the floor and passed it to Matt. “Keep a hold of that,” she instructed and he held onto it as if it was the most precious thing in the world.

She pulled out a stethoscope from her bag – seriously, how could she even carry this thing around? – and used one hand to push Foggy forwards – Matt let go as soon as her hand touched his. She lifted the back of his shirt and pressed the cold metal against his back, pushing the eartips into her ears. “Deep breath, Foggy.”

A few deep breaths and she sighed in relief – his lungs were sounding a little clearer already. She told the two of them this.

“I could’ve told you that,” Matt muttered, relaxing now that Foggy was slowly recovering.

Foggy snorted, but didn’t speak.

“Claire, thank you,” Matt called to her. His hand found hers and squeezed. “I panicked when he started wheezing. He…he had a really bad one in college and ended up in hospital with a machine breathing for him. I don’t think I can cope with hearing that again.”

She grimaced. That had to have been hell on his senses. “It wasn’t as severe this time, but he does need to get new inhalers as soon as possible – I doubt this will be the last attack.” Matt inhaled sharply at that. “But, you did the right thing getting him sitting up and keeping him calm. You did a great job, Dr Murdock.”

Matt laughed and pulled Foggy back so his head was once more resting on Matt’s chest. “Not bad yourself, Dr Temple,” he retorted.

“Damn it, Murdock – it’s Nurse Temple.” She chuckled to reassure him she was joking. “Now, you’ll need to keep an eye on him to make sure none of the symptoms come back – I’ll leave the inhaler in case they do. If he gets any worse, call me.”

“You’re not staying?” Disappointment flashed over his expression, replaced quickly with what looked like a resting bitch face – Claire almost laughed out loud at the idea of Matt Murdock, lawyer and vigilante extraordinaire, having a bitch face. “I mean, what if he does get worse and you can’t get here on time?”

Claire bit her lip to hold back a smile, but then remembered that Matt wouldn’t see it anyway. So he liked her company, it seemed, and he wasn’t a bad guy to talk to. She pretended to think about it. “That depends…”

“On what?” He rose his eyebrows and bit his lip. “Do you have what you need if he gets worse? What if he needs that tube put in again?” he spluttered.

“It depends…how do you feel about Masterchef?” Claire interrupted before he could work himself into a panic attack.

He paused, that little puppy look showing off his confusion. “Foggy usually commentates. He says that Gordon Ramsay looks like he eats kittens for breakfast. And his descriptions are slightly…biased. You know, ‘oh he’s totally looking at her breasts. Wrong buns, Ramsay!’ and all that.”

“He’s not a baker,” Foggy slurred, half asleep. Matt squeezed his shoulder.

“She can show you how you’re _supposed_ to describe food to a blind man,” he snarked.

Foggy huffed out a laugh. “I’m surprised you can’t smell it through the screen,” he retorted.

Claire seriously considered leaving the TV off. Couldn’t she just watch these two instead?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, everyone who got to the end.


End file.
